


Continental Nightmares

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies), Kitchen Nightmares RPF
Genre: Crack, Gen, Gordon Ramsay is Winston's nephew, I AM DRUNK, Santino has opinions too but then he puts up with calamari and mint sauce, The Sommelier and his Bordeaux Soaker 2000 saves the day (art available), This started out as a Kitchen Nightmares AU and then sort of...just ended up as a Gordon Ramsay AU, Winston is drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26374057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Winston’s nephew gets a hit taken out on him and is stuck in the New York Continental for his own safety.(To say the least, he’s got opinions.)
Relationships: Gordon Ramsay & Various People at the Continental
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36
Collections: We die afen and afen





	Continental Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).



> So like, my excuse here is that you've written one fic for John Wick, but also I hope Gordon yelling about stuff makes up for...uh, things. Eep.

“I hope I am not speaking out of turn,” Charon said, in his neatly-clipped English, “but have you advised your nephew about the—special needs of our hotel guests? This is the twentieth complaint from the kitchen, and Mr. Ramsay’s scarcely been here a day.” 

Winston was halfway through what was not his first whisky, a very serviceable Macallan’s, and he forced himself to note the time, which was barely midday. 

“Trust me, I’d fob him off on another Manager in the blink of an eye, but as everyone keeps reminding me, he’s _family_.” Winston sighed, “And someone did try to shoot him in the head. That remains an undisputed fact.” 

Charon coughed, “...Over a restaurant?” 

Winston gave him a withering look. “You know as well as I do that ships have sailed for less. What is Gordon doing now?” 

Now, Charon sighed too, as if he knew a storm was coming, “He’s having lunch, sir.”

* 

“It is a well-known fact,” Santino D’Antonio drawled, putting down his fork in favor of his wine glass, “that Americans have ruined pasta for good. It’s on its last legs. Pizza is making a comeback, but it’s a slow process, I feel. I’m financing a pizzeria in Brooklyn. Everything will be imported from Napoli and unspoilt.” 

“You _say_ that, but.” The blond, thatched-haired man sitting across from him was drinking seltzer water and lemon. Admittedly, Santino was not too familiar with the combination as a drink, but he was familiar enough with its other uses. No doubt the man was as well, if he was a relation of Winston’s. 

At first, Santino hadn’t been able to figure it out. Managers were notoriously private people and Santino couldn’t even really picture Winston having a mother; however, Winston was of an age, where it was difficult to fathom the man being grown from a test tube. But then he’d felt it, the very deadly, “you should fucking know better” sort of energy that emanated dangerously across the table. 

Except at this moment it wasn’t necessarily directed at Santino, the way he was used to. Rather, the man’s ire was directed carefully and precisely at his chest-level—at his plate of once crispy calamari now doused in what was probably mint sauce. 

Come to think of it...

“But?” Santino queried, some hesitation in his voice. 

The man stabbed a finger meanly towards Santino’s plate like a knife. “But how are you _eating_ that? It’s obviously undercooked! And wet! And terrible. You could get food poisoning. It’s _green_ , for fuck’s sake.” 

Continental Hotels were not known for fine dining given the Kitchen staff’s myriad of other responsibilities. But up until now, it was a well kept secret, one that paled and was forgot next to the Kitchen’s other functions. Santino opened his mouth to say that the calamari was hardly the worst thing on the menu, and that no one really came to the hotel for food anyway. They ate it because they had to. 

On a second thought, perhaps not. Instead, Santino said, “Well, it’s mint. It’s going to look a bit green. And I know it’s not poisoned, at least. The Kitchen has rats for that.” 

The man’s temple throbbed dangerously. “ _Rats_?” He thundered. By now he was basically yelling, loud enough to incur the evil eye from everybody in the dining area. A few tables away, Santino thought he spotted someone detaching something sharp from the heel of his boot. There was nothing like a collectively unwanted guest to bind patrons together. .

“ _Gordon,_ ” Winston’s voice cut decisively through the simmering tension of the room, and the attention of the other patrons(but not the awareness) dispersed once more. “That is _enough_. Don’t hound my guests.” 

Not that it took much to take Santino’s attention away from his meal, but this was especially interesting. He tried to catch Winston’s eye, but the Manager ignored him. 

That wasn’t new.

What was new, was that the man—Winston called him Gordon, like the gin—rose up from his seat without a care in the world and towered over Winston like some sort of overstretched awning. “Did you know there are _rats_ in your kitchen? What the fuck kind of fine dining _establishment_ do you think you’re running here? And in the middle of New York? How the fuck are you staying in business?” 

“I’ll thank you to watch your tone, Gordon,” Winston said icily, although the effect was somewhat dampened by the presence of a full tumbler of whiskey in his hand. These days, the Manager was rarely seen without a drink. 

“What kind of numpty puts mint sauce on _calamari_?” Gordon glowered once more at Santino’s lunch and even Santino was starting to feel some sympathy for it. He ate a forkful and washed it down with a long gulp of wine. 

“A numpty who can no doubt gut you in thirty seconds. And besides, I run a hotel that only incidentally has a restaurant. Has a bullet flying two inches past your skull not taught you a thing?” Winston glowered right back. At this angle, the family resemblance was uncanny. “Anyway, I need to speak with you, now.” 

Santino tried to catch Winston’s eye again as the Manager took Gordon very firmly under his elbow. 

This time, Winston noticed, and mouthed, not an apology for the Continental’s continued tradition of terrible service, but perhaps something akin to an explanation: “You have to excuse my nephew. He’s on the television a lot. He forgets himself.” 

*

“That’s about the short of it,” said Winston in the private of his upstairs study, where he was loath to open his second bottle of Macallan. “Please don’t antagonize any of my staff more than you have to, or harass my guests. Some of them are ah, shall we say, impatient, and very well connected.” 

“Seriously. When was the last time you ate anything in your own restaurant?” 

Winston gestured at his glass and shrugged. “I almost never eat there, myself. I’m a staunch believer in a liquid lunch.” 

Gordon opened his mouth, possibly to go on another tirade, but he was interrupted by a knock on the study’s door. 

“Come in,” Winston called, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. 

“You wanted to see me, sir?” The Sommelier poked his head in, taking in the situation at hand. He had the distinct gift of a formless face, giving almost nothing away. But then he nodded cordially at Gordon. “You must be Winston’s nephew. I’ve heard a lot about you. You really don’t like mint.” 

Winston coughed into his drink. “I was hoping you could show Gordon to our wine cellar. No doubt he’ll find something that interests him.” To Gordon’s questioning glance, Winston said, “This here is our Sommelier. And besides, as there is no need for any mice in the cellar, I think you’ll enjoy yourself.” 

*

“And this is a fine Bordeaux,” said the Sommelier. “Top of the line, if you insist on sticking with the French. It’s very full-bodied. To tell you the truth, I don’t really understand the German penchant for Riesling. It’s awful. Tastes of nothing.” 

Gordon stared. “That’s a fucking machine gun.” 

“Without any mint.” The Sommelier nodded. “If you want something more refreshing, there’s a nice Sauvignon Blanc that just cleared customs today. If you’d like I can go fetch the keys. Haven’t you ever wanted to be drunk on power, Mr. Ramsay? It’s the same thing. Why don’t you give it a try?” 

*

Santino watched as Winston poured himself another glass of whiskey without offering him any. “You wanted to see me?” 

Winston nodded. He didn't invite Santino to sit down. “I did. Tell me, this pizzeria that you’re apparently helping to finance in Brooklyn, did your cousin run an eatery in Atlantic City? Luigi’s, Lucciano’s, something like that, I forget.” 

“Luca’s,” said Santino. “Yeah, so?” 

“I would be very grateful if you’d have a word with this cousin and have him call off the contract on Gordon Ramsay. As you can see, his presence here is demoralizing to everyone at the Continental. But especially the Kitchen staff and I’d like to keep them happy, if I can.” 

Santino made a rude sound in his throat. “I can’t believe you two are related.” 

“That side of the family is Scottish,” said Winston, waving it away. “Most of the time, they don’t exist. You do this for me, and I’ll have a word with Jonathan on your behalf. Surely you must be sick of our calamari by now?”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to know what the Sommelier's top of the line Bordeaux looks like, it's [here](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/745218198135242864/753237100651872266/unknown.png?width=655&height=419). (Many thanks to StripySock.)


End file.
